Decided To Fly
by Maybe the Moon
Summary: Sirius learns to fly. Slash.


Decided To Fly
    By Moony

The problem of Sirius Black was that he truly hated flying. He'd only been up on a broom once in his short fifteen years of life, and it was in his opinion one time too many. His father, having spent a fair amount of gold on the broom, was not impressed by his nine-year-old son's insistence that he was going to fall, and die, despite only being about a foot up off the ground. The broom went to Regulus, who was a year younger and fearless, and would taunt Sirius with his feet dangling into the tops of trees. Sirius would not fly again, not for years. 

There was no traumatic incident associated with his fear of flying, no tragic family history with Hippogriffs or pegasi. It was nothing more than his absolute desire to maintain his ongoing acquaintance with terra firma. He concluded that if the powers-that-be had intended for him to fly, he would have been born with the proper appendages, and that was most certainly that.

Then Sirius met a boy called James Potter who liked to fly. Ten seconds later when his trolley tipped over and spilled owl-and-trunk to the platform of nine-and-three-quarters, Sirius met another boy called Remus Lupin, who loved it.

Remus wasn't a skilled flyer, not by a long shot. That was James, whose command over a broomstick brought tears to their flying teacher's eyes and in their second year earned him a spot on the Gryffindor Quidditch team. He was too tall to be a Seeker, which was the position where his brand of grace would have been a boon, but he made a fine Chaser, and Gryffindor rarely lost a match. Sirius cheered from the sidelines, for James and for his House, with a short, pudgy little echo named Peter Pettigrew seated to his left.

To his right, however, Remus watched the matches in silence. His eyes followed the players as they swooped and dove and glided, and peripherally Sirius could see Remus memorising the way that they moved. Remus considered flying to be an art form, fluidity in the air that wasn't afforded to him on Earth. He was thin – skinny, really, sort of undercooked-looking – and had big feet that caught on everything. It was only when he was up on his broom that Remus looked comfortable, and Sirius learned to like watching him fly as much as he liked watching Quidditch.

Remus liked to fly at night, and in their fifth year his Prefect status lent him the privilege of roaming the school after hours, on the pretense of patrols. More often than not Remus would take a cursory stroll through the corridors, pausing beside the statue of Ogdred the Obsessive to nicker quietly into the shadows until the shadows moved and followed him, in the form of a big black dog, out to the Quidditch pitch. For hours Remus would fly designs against the stars while Padfoot watched, thumping his tail against the grass. Sometimes he would transform back into a human and sprawl upon his back, laughing when Remus would dive down low in a passable Wronski-Feint, just close enough to stir Sirius's hair.

They were both newly-sixteen the night that Remus landed beside him, tumbling neatly into the grass and coming to rest a few inches from Sirius's feet. He peered up at him through an unruly mop of straw-coloured hair, night-flight flickering brightly in his eyes.

"Your turn," he said.

Sirius sat up. "What?"

"Your turn." Remus motioned toward the broom hovering patiently beside him. "You can have a go, if you like."

"No," said Sirius, shaking his head. "It's all right."

Remus frowned. "But-"

"I like watching you fly."

"It can't be any fun to just watch, Padfoot." Remus rolled over onto his back, the side of his head pressing into Sirius's leg. "You've been watching for six years."

Sirius looked away, toward the dark outline of the castle. "I don't mind."

"What are you afraid of?"

"Nothing. Falling. I don't know." Sirius turned scarlet. His left hand, which had been plucking absently at the grass, was suddenly taken up by strong, slender fingers. Remus was staring at him, studying him the way he did the Quidditch team, and birds, and the Thestrals that Remus didn't want any of them to know that he could see.

"Come on," said Remus softly, and he tugged at Sirius's hand until they were standing. Remus guided Sirius's hand to the broom handle. "It's easy. I promise, I won't let you fall."

Sirius hesitated.

"I won't let you fall," Remus said again, in a voice that Sirius had never heard him before, all urgent and low, and so this time Sirius believed him.

He mounted the broom and found that it felt certain and steady beneath him. Sudden warmth at his back startled him forward a bit, but then two arms wound their way around his middle and pulled him back.

"I've got you." Remus's voice was as sturdy as the broom, but as it slowly lifted them from the ground he felt the sinking, twisting sensation of panic building in his chest, erupting from his mouth in a thin, reedy sound.

A hand clamped over his mouth. "Shh," hissed Remus. "None of that."

Sirius whimpered, licked at Remus's palm to try and get him to remove it. It worked, and Remus made a rude noise as he withdrew his hand. Sirius exhaled, and dipped his toes down until they skirted the ground. It wasn't as frightening so long as he could keep some sort of connection going below.

Then the broom gave a sudden jerk upwards, and Sirius's feet left Earth altogether. Before he could cry out however a strong hand cupped his jaw and turned his head, and Remus's mouth opening against his prevented him from making any sounds at all beyond a startled sigh.

It was less surprising than it should have been that Remus was kissing him – dirty with a lot of tongue, gentle fingers making soft, loving little circles against Sirius's cheekbone. When they parted for air, Sirius opened his eyes and found himself a good twenty feet off the ground. He lurched slightly, and were it not for Remus's arms and control he might have toppled right off. He clung back, burying his face into Remus's shoulder before risking a peek over it, at the castle behind them and the Quidditch pitch moving lazily beneath them. 

They were flying.

"See?" Remus breathed into his hair. "It's not so bad."

It wasn't so bad at all, and from then on Sirius loved flying, so long that he was on a broomstick - and later, an enchanted motorbike - in the middle of the night with a warm and breathless boy wrapped around him from behind, to keep him grounded. 

"I knew you'd be all right," Remus whispered to him later, his voice nearly lost on the back of the wind, "once you decided to fly." 


End file.
